When Fate Catches Up
by arainyspringmorning
Summary: Set just before Logan arrives at the school to find Charles in 1973. Let's just say Charles is in a slightly worse place than he is before he makes his appearance at the top of the stairs... and that place concerns Erik. I hope you enjoy; comments/feedback are always appreciated.


_When Fate Catches Up (published on AO3)_

_o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-o_

Charles' eyes snapped open as something flat and heavy slapped the waxed hardwood floors. He looked round, slightly dazed from sleep, and he leaned down to pick up the hardcover. Placing it on the table beside his chair, he stood and stretched out his arms and spine, wincing at a loud crack. _Bloody hell, what time is it? _

A quick count of the children's heads – or minds – calmed Charles, that is until he found one missing from the group. He let his senses travel through the mansion to all the usual places, and he even ventured outside, pressing until he was starting to breathe harder from panic.

_Erik?_ He sent out, willing his worried call to reach the metal-bender, wherever he might be. Charles knew that he would have reached him by now, asleep or a couple of miles away. Straining to pick up on Erik, Charles rushed out of the library. He was at a full run by the time he hit the stairs and was aiming for the front doors.

"Erik!" he shouted verbally and mentally when his feet slapped smooth grey stones. His eyes scanned everything as he shook out his suddenly-taunt muscles, although it was useless. He didn't have the power to see far away or yell loud enough. His shoes slapped to a halt and, gasping for breath, he closed his eyes, pressed his fingers into his temple, and reached.

_Erik, where are you? Erik! ERIK!_

"Professor?"

Charles jerked awake and looked up, his face blanched and his palms clammy. He sat up to find himself in his bedroom, a horrid mess of newspapers, empty alcohol bottles, and clothing tossed carelessly. Charles looked back up to where Hank stood in the doorway, his face tinged pale blue. Charles smiled lightly, but it didn't reach his eyes.

"Sorry, Hank. I was dreaming."

"Oh," Hank looked embarrassed and the subtle blue veins faded from his forehead. He shuffled his feet nervously and glanced between Charles and the floor until the professor said rather shortly, "What is it?"

"It's nothing. It's just…" Hank twisted his hands together. "Well, it's just…"

"Spit it out, will you?" Charles snapped.

"You were shouting for Erik," Hank confessed, meeting Charles' eyes. He quickly looked away as the professor scowled and flung the thin hand knitted blanket off his legs. He stood (privately marvelling at the fact that he was able to walk) and approached Hank. Charles stood beside the towering young man, humming and hahhing until he finally quieted and looked up. He could feel the moistness in his eyes, and although he was slightly ashamed to have been moved by a simple dream, he managed to utter, "Yes. Yes, I suppose I was, wasn't I?"

Hank stared at Charles for a moment, sadness and anger reflected there at the memory of sandy beaches and the smoldering ruins of a submarine and a jet. With a light smile, Hank clapped a loose hand to Charles' shoulder, murmuring, "Call if you need anything," and leaving the professor standing in the doorway of his bedroom with only his thoughts.

It took Charles a few seconds to command his feet to move and turn him so he was facing his room. He suddenly saw it in a different light. The floors were free of mess, the chairs and tables were orderly, the fireplace was cleared of ash and soot, and the little table between the two armchairs was dust free, laden with two glasses, a bottle of aged whiskey, and a chessboard gleaming and placed with two neat rows of white glass and black granite each.

Closing his eyes tight, Charles closed the door and took a step, then suddenly collapsed. He felt a shock of fear, worrying that the serum had worn off and that the voices would begin their shouting once again. But no, dead silence met Charles ears. He realized that he simply couldn't stand for the weight that had suddenly dropped down into his heart.

The anguish overwhelmed him. Charles curled into himself, pressing firmly against the solid wood of the door and fisting his hands, gripping his robe tightly. He breathed harshly through his nose, his teeth clenched to keep in the sobs spreading an unbearable ache through his chest. He felt like he was drowning, and the comparison was strangely ironic and heartbreaking all at once.

Charles was helpless and he, for a moment too brief for him to be certain, he realized that perhaps he was more like Erik than he'd thought. Well, now at least. He had absolutely nothing and he'd lost everything, and he blamed everything on one single man, the man that ten years ago he could have called his best friend without a doubt. The man that took _her_ away. The man that took his ability to _walk_. Charles raised his fists to his face, a keening whine echoing in his throat, and the unwelcome tears were suddenly flowing down his cheeks.

_Why_ had he dreamed of Erik? Why had he been chasing after a lost cause? Why had he cared so much in his dream? _Why was I so easily fooled? How did I forget? I haven't been that man in so long…_

The doorbell suddenly rang, breaking Charles' angst-ridden state of mind and he lifted his head. _Who in the bloody hell is here?_ Charles wanted to call to Hank, to send him to answer the door and tell whoever was disturbing him to leave, but Charles was afraid to open his mouth. He could feel the insane wail building in his chest. Charles heard the creak of old wood as the main door opened, and he heard two voices.

There was Hank, but somehow, the other seemed familiar. Charles listened, his spine ridged. It was like listening to a radio turned down past the point of hearing anything but a subtle buzz. The other voice awaked a memory, but which one? _Who's at the door? _

Someone was calling for him, for _the professor._ Charles curled tighter, willing himself to disappear. That is, until he heard the shouting, the scrambling that resembled claws on wood, a god-awful yell, and a beast-like roar. Charles was up on his feet and hurrying down the hall, piss-drunk mad and irritable with the soul who dared come to bother him today _of all days. _

Charles made up his mind as he went. He would look this bastard in the face, ask them to leave, and have Hank do the rest. _Yes, that seems perfectly suitable. I don't need this today. Hank won't mind, and this stranger will just have to leave one way or another._

Avoiding the gouges in the floor and the tears in the carpet, he made his way to the main foyer where a leather jack-wearing man gave him some ridiculous story about having travelled from the future to save the past. But even as Charles (albeit reluctantly) listened and rebelled, and wept over distant memories, he somehow actually agreed to assist this "Logan" (although it was still complete rubbish, as far as he was concerned). It wasn't until Logan told him that they'd need _him_ that Charles felt the world tilt and had the desperate urge to run to his room and hide there until the scary monsters went away…

At the same time, Charles thought it was all hilarious. Hilarious, up until the point Logan uttered a single sentence that assured Charles that none of this was a bad dream that he would sooner or later wake up from. No, it was a living nightmare, and his ears rang and pained as though they were bleeding, as Logan said, "The Professor I know would never turn his back on someone who lost their path, especially someone he loved."

Erik's face flashed through his mind. Not the face that was captured in a fleeing shot and pasted all over the Sunday papers and being broadcasted endlessly on the news. Charles remembered the large black print scrawled on white, the newscaster delivering minor detail after minor detail, the face of the familiar stranger with a perfect split of pure rage and absolute horror twisting his expression. Charles remembered his eyes, his pale eyes as blue as a winter's sky and as cold as the metal he could bend at will, staring out like ice and darkness.

No, Charles' memory stretched further back than that. He could still feel the bitterly cold water biting his skin and taste the ocean in his mouth, he could feel the mind burning bright with enough fury to nearly knock the breath out of him and enough torture to clamp hold of his spine and refuse to let go. He remembered Erik, hair all wet and plastered down, heaving for breath yet using what little he had left to demand for answers, his mind open like a book to Charles; a book that Charles couldn't help but read. _I thought I was alone_.

Logan was right. Charles would never turn his back on Erik.

…_especially someone he loved._


End file.
